


A Place of Revelations

by Anyawen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Mild Angst, Post-Reichenbach, lots of determination, mild hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:18:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3075368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day of the Fall John lost himself in London. When he came back to himself hours later and miles away, he discovered a text on his phone, a coded message, sent by Sherlock seconds before he'd called from the roof of Bart's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place of Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Finishing just in time to post for 2014 and Mydwynter's 'Longest Week Drabble Fest'. I think there's a bit more of this story that may come later. Not (yet) beta'd or Britpicked.

When John finally looked at his phone, hours later, he had twenty one new messages. 

Five texts and four increasingly worried voice mails from Harry. She'd seen the news and was checking to see if he's okay.

He's not okay.

Two texts from Mike. The first asked if the news is true. The second asked if John is at Bart's.

He's not at Bart's.

Two texts from Lestrade. The first asked why. The second asked where John is.

He doesn't know why.

Looking around, he's not sure where he is, either.

After he'd been pulled back, away from the body, John had stumbled over to lean against the wall of the ambulance bay. Keeping one hand on the wall, he'd managed to drag himself around the corner, away from the crowd that still lingered on the sidewalk. 

He had no recollection of staggering away, of traversing streets and alleys, of blundering through parks, or of crossing bridges. He was more than a slightly amazed, and a bit disappointed, honestly, to not have been struck by a passing car.

He didn't know where he was, but it's clearly miles from where he started. 

There are messages from Bill, and Mrs Hudson, and Sarah. Texts from Clara, and Henry Knight. There's even a message from Sally Donovan, her voice strangely gentle, asking him to turn himself in.

He'd forgotten that he was wanted by the police.

A text from Mycroft offering any assistance John might require.

And, timestamped just seconds before his phone had rung with an incoming call from Sherlock, one text from Molly. The call had come before he'd been able to view the message. It was all he could do to stay upright as he read it.

_Vatican cameos. Happy New Year. 23:59. Please. - SH_

“Fuck,” John breathed, closing his eyes. The message was still there when he reopened them. “Jesus Christ!”

John tried to collect his scattered thoughts, but found concentration impossible. He was beyond shattered. Physically worn out, intellectually drained, and emotionally exhausted. He'd had no sleep the night before, had spent the last – he checked the time on his phone – ten hours trudging aimlessly through London, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

He giggled at the ridiculousness of it all, feeling the edge of hysteria creeping in. Passers-by edged away from him, casting him curious, apprehensive glances. John noted their responses and the hysteria evaporated, rapidly replaced by a feeling of exposure.

John shoved the phone in his pocket and looked up, scanning the area, suddenly inexplicably wary.

He was unsurprised to find a CCTV camera pointed at him. At least there was no sleek black car sliding up next to him. Yet.

John needed to get off the street. He needed to eat. God. He needed to piss.

He needed to think. Sherlock had sent him a message. Had given him a puzzle. Had fucking said _please._

“Right, then,” he muttered, looking around again to try to get his bearings. He saw a coffee shop on the corner and made his way inside. He made use of the facilities, then joined the queue.

“Coffee, and one of those cheese danishes,” John said with what he hoped was a smile when he reached the counter. “And can you tell me where the nearest tube station is?”

“You can catch the Central or District line at Ealing Broadway, or the Picadilly line at Ealing Common. Either one, just head out to the street there and follow it to the station. Right for Broadway, left for Common.”

“Ta,” John said, dropping his change in the tip jar and accepting his order. “Which one's closer?” he asked, not wanting to think about walking any farther at the moment and wondering how in the bloody hell he'd managed to wind up in Ealing.

“That'd be Common, though not by much.”

John nodded his thanks, moved off to an empty table, and sat down wearily. He refused to think about the message on the phone, or the events of the last twenty-four hours, until he'd finished eating. The danish was small, and he was hungry. The distraction it provided did not last long.

John sipped at his coffee pushed his exhaustion away. He had no time to be tired. 

He pulled his phone from his coat pocket and stared at the message again.

_Please,_ it said. A request. But for what?

A time, but no date. Generally that would indicate the day in question was the same day the message was sent. So, 23:59 – 11:59 – tonight.

A request and a time. Requesting a meeting? Where?

_Vatican cameos._ Imminent danger. Death.

_Happy New Year._ What did that mean? It was mid-June – just about as far from the new year as it was possible to be.

A reference to something that had happened at the turn of the year? He and Sherlock had been flatmates for a year and a half, and had spent only one New Year's Day together. A day filled with abductions by beautiful women, a resurrection – of sorts, and trigger-happy Americans.

A faked death, revealed. Could it be? John closed his eyes against the wild surge of hope. Sherlock had said that it was a magic trick, but the rest of his call had been lies. No.

What did it mean, then? _Happy New Year._

John went over the rest of the text again. A request for a meeting. Tonight. Dangerous. The only information lacking was the location.

The answer, when it came, was obvious. It was the only place he'd been that day besides 221b. A place where lies – and truths – had been confronted.

John finished his coffee and stood, tossing his cup in the bin as he exited the cafe onto the street. He turned to the left, heading to the closer tube stop. He had time – hours yet before the text had indicated he should be there – but he needed to approach cautiously. He'd already observed the CCTV cameras tracking him, and he was a fugitive. Wouldn't do to get caught. More than that, though, Sherlock's message indicated that there were lives at stake. Sherlock was already lost, and John didn't care much about himself, but he wouldn't risk that innocents might be harmed.

Resolved on a roundabout route, John was determined to find whatever Sherlock had left for him, or to demand answers of whomever Sherlock had intended him to meet. He grabbed a hand hold, set his feet against the swaying of the train, and began to make his circuitous way to Battersea.


End file.
